Of Hurt And Hope
by JestersTear
Summary: The guilt from Cullen's past in Kinloch Hold and Kirkwall and feelings of unworthiness prevent him from accepting the advances of a mage Trevelyan. Despite wanting more, Gabriel pursues a close friendship with Cullen after the rejection. Hawke comes to Skyhold and decides to exact revenge on a self-loathing Cullen in a terrible way. What will Gabriel do once he learns the truth?
1. One

**Gabriel Trevelyan**

 _"I would value your friendship. I'm afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you'll understand."_

Those had been the words that had crushed his dreams. He couldn't even remember what he'd replied, but the heartache he'd felt was far too real. Cullen was trying to tell him there was no possibility of him ever reciprocating his affections. Trying to politely convey that there wasn't half a chance for the Herald to win his heart because he was, simply put, the wrong gender.

On the outside he had shrugged it off with a smile. Tried - as far as he knew, successfuly - to pass it off as mere flirting, nothing of consequence. On the inside he was torn to shreds. He'd had no defence against Cullen's easy charm and warm smile, hadn't been expecting to fall so hard and so fast for the Commander of the Inquisition's forces, and when he'd realised what had happened it had been far past too late.

Cullen's first response to his overtures had been promising, if embarassed enough, and Gabriel had hoped... He thought he might have a chance. For someone as suave as he was supposed to be he had resorted to following the Commander around like a lost puppy, trying to talk to him as often as he could, and Cullen had humoured him, for a while. Until that talk in the courtyard.

All there had been left to do, after Cullen's gentle but unmistakeable rebuff, had been to resign himself to feeling like that for a very long time. He had been a bit of a player at the Circle, and during the occasional visits home. He enjoyed sex and he was good at it. Love was a different matter. He'd only dared to love once - curiously enough, a Templar as well - but had never found the courage to act. It was probably why he'd been so determined to not let his chance with Cullen slip away, to not make the same mistake twice. He knew his own heart well enough to understand that, once he'd fallen in love, it would take years for the longing he felt for the former Templar to fade enough that he might entertain the hope of falling in love again.

In the meantime, he consoled himself with the knowledge that he had gained a true and steadfast friend. Cullen's words hadn't been hollow platitudes, designed to soothe the blow of rejection, they had been, quite simply, the truth. The Commander did value the Herald's friendship - no, it was more than that: _Cullen_ valued _Gabriel_ : no family names, no titles. Cullen was as loyal a friend as he could ever have asked for, and he had no right to resent what the other man could not offer.

* * *

 **Cullen Rutherford**

The first time it happened he had been caught unprepared. He had been talking with the Herald - _Gabriel_ \- at the training grounds in Haven, and had gotten caught up in his own enthusiasm over what the Inquisition could accomplish where the Chantry had failed. He'd apologised once he'd realised how long his rant had become, but Gabriel's reply - and, more than that, his _tone_ \- suggested he'd be interested in a lot more than a lecture.

Cullen had immediately been reduced to a blubbering fool, a transparent excuse regarding too much work on his lips. It wasn't until later that night that it hit him that he'd left an open door for Gabriel to try again. _"Another time, perhaps,"_ he'd told the Herald. He shouldn't have.

Gabriel had been a bit infamous in the Circle, having cheerful trysts with both mages and Templars - enough so that the tales had reached him in Kirkwall, where Meredith had promptly declared the Ostwick circle to be a foul pit of perversion, if even the Templars were so easily corrupted by their charges - and his status as a noble whose family had not shunned him had given him both the protection and the allure to pull off that sort of behaviour, the fact that he was a mage for once only adding to his roguish charm. Cullen hadn't given him a second thought until actually meeting the man and realising first hand how magnetic his presence truly was. It had been relatively easy to ignore, however, until that day in Haven.

And then it had become all he could think of.

Gabriel seemed to have made a point of engaging him after that. He'd hang around at the war table after a meeting, materialise right in front of Cullen when he was exiting his tent, sit next to him at dinner, green eyes alight with whatever topic they were discussing, gesticulating enthusiastically, and it was impossible not to love him. The Chosen One, the Herald of Andraste, Lord Trevelyan. Just Gabriel.

Andraste preserve him, but his traitorous heart sped every time he caught a glimpse of tanned skin and green eyes. He hadn't shut down Gabriel's attempts because, in truth, he was utterly besotted with the man, and he didn't want to give up the fantasy just yet.

He had never... _been_ with anyone, not physically at least. The demons in Ferelden had... done _things_ to him, but once he'd been rescued his body showed no proof. It had all been in his mind. After that he hadn't wanted to be with anyone - not until Gabriel.

And, had Cullen allowed him to, he would have shown him pleasure the likes of which the former Templar had never known. To have the chance to spend a night in Gabriel's bed, to have his first true experience be with someone he held so dearly... Were he anything other than a mage and Cullen wouldn't have found it within him to resist. He was barely able to, but a mage... not after what he'd wanted for the Ferelden Circle; not after everything he'd seen done in Kirkwall without lifting a finger. He wasn't worthy of polishing Gabriel's boots, let alone of sharing his bed.

He had put it off long enough. Gabriel found him once more on the training grounds, asked him if there had been anyone special back in Kirkwall. If he knew what kind of a man Cullen had been, he wouldn't ask. And so, with a heavy heart, he spoke plainly so that there would be no misunderstandings.

 _"I would value your friendship. I'm afraid I cannot offer more. I trust you'll understand."_

And, surprisingly, Gabriel did understand. He understood and ceased his flirting immediately, but he didn't stop talking to him outside the scope of the Inquisition. He took him at face value. He became his _friend_. Cullen had had precious few of those and, even though he knew he was being selfish, even though he knew he had no right, he couldn't bring himself to give up Gabriel's friendship. This one precious thing he'd keep for himself. At least just a little longer.


	2. Two

**Cullen Rutherford**

Skyhold was a sight to behold - it would elevate the Inquisition, garner respect, become a symbol for the one institution that had the good of Thedas at heart, rather than petty squables - but Cullen couldn't let go of the people they'd lost in Haven. _His fault._ He was the commander, he should have had a plan, a better one than "let's have siege equipment laying around in case someone decides to lay siege to us".

Instead he'd become complacent - relied on the fact that they were fighting a hole in the sky, rather than a general - and lives had been lost. Too many lives. And one of those lives - he shuddered to think of it - one of those lives could have been Gabriel.

Gabriel, who had stayed behind to offer them all safe passage and had fully expected to die. He couldn't let go of that moment, of having stood in front of Gabriel, beautiful, glorious Gabriel, and having wanted nothing more than to trade places with him. To die protecting him, as would have been both his duty and his honour. But they both knew the thing at the gates had come for Gabriel, and if it found Cullen instead none of the town's people would make it to safety in time. And so, like a coward, he left. And he thought - he feared - Gabriel had been lost forever.

Everyone had told him to let go, to give up the search. That their Herald couldn't be anything but dead after so long in the snow. Yet Cullen wouldn't, couldn't stop until he'd found Gabriel. Or at the very least his body.

But he'd been alive. Nearly dead, collapsing in the snow, his staff useless and broken, but _alive_. Cullen's faith in the Maker felt renewed as he carried Gabriel into their makeshift camp.

He hadn't managed to control his emotions as well as he'd hoped that night and, before he even knew how, he was in a fight with Josephine and Leliana, assigning blame left and right even though he knew the blame was his alone.

Later, in his tent, away from prying eyes, Cullen had shed tears of joy. Gabriel was _alive_.

* * *

 **Gabriel Trevelyan**

All in all, it had been a rather remarkable week, even if Cassandra was intent on finding a dozen different ways to slaughter Varric. The dwarf had known where Hawke was the entire time. Gabriel didn't know whether to be impressed or amused. Most likely both.

Also, relieved.

If Hawke had been around before, Gabriel would never have been made leader of the Inquisition. And, even as Herald, Hawke would have found a way to make Gabriel useful by closing rifts left and right, nothing more. He'd known the man for a week and already he could see how he positively reeked of authority. People did whatever he told them almost by instinct. Chaos would place itself in order if Hawke willed it. It was little wonder Cassandra had wanted him to lead.

But, if Gabriel hadn't been the Inquisitor, if there had been someone as capable as Hawke in charge even back in Haven, he wouldn't have had the chance to grow this close to Cullen. There would have been no War Room meetings, no late nights, no shared camaraderie. And Gabriel would have missed it dearly even if he could never be anything else to Cullen.

He was glad he was the Inquisitor. Hawke was doing fine just being the Champion.

It was rather late, he had to make decisions as to where to go next and he wanted to sort it out before going to sleep, but his mind kept drifting instead of looking at the parchments in front of him.

He needed backup.

Parchments in hand he snuck in the kitchen to grab a pair of mugs of ale. If he was going to beg Cullen for help he might as well bring bribes.

Despite the lateness of the hour he was fairly certain the former Templar was still awake but, if he wasn't, his door would be locked, so Gabriel wouldn't risk waking him.

He had to hold the parchments with his lips to use one hand to try the handle, the mugs dancing perilously on his other hand. To his delight he found it unlocked.

He took the parchments back in hand, to be able to speak, and began talking even before he was inside, his back leaning on the door to allow him entry.

"Cullen, can you help me go over some of these? I brought mead to bribe you with to help my- _oh_."

Cullen was awake, alright. He was awake and _naked_ , thankfully behind his desk.

And Hawke, in full armour - the man hadn't even taken off his _gauntlets_! - was taking him from behind, completely unfazed by Gabriel's entrance. He averted his eyes, couldn't look at either of them, couldn't think past the sickening not-quite-slap of metal on flesh.

Trying to salvage what was left of his dignity he swallowed the bile that had risen in his throat and apologised.

"I am terribly sorry for the intrusion, Commander. Hawke. I would suggest you lock the door next time. Carry on."

And he turned and fled, leaving half of his soul on the floor of Cullen's office.

His mind didn't even register what he was doing until he'd downed both mugs of ale and promptly thrown them from the battlements, his parchments only barely escaping the same fate.

Cullen had said he didn't like… _Gabriel_. That was the only thing he had said. What sort of a conceited imbecile took that to mean the other man didn't enjoy the company of men, he didn't know. Himself, apparently.

He had to regain some distance from Cullen, as soon as possible, or he'd make a fool of himself.

Abandoning the idea of making any Inquisition-related decisions before sleeping he made for his quarters, his footsteps almost as heavy as his heart.

And the unrelenting image of Hawke fully armoured pounding a naked Cullen and not even reacting to his abrupt entrance wouldn't let go of him.

How could they… Not even his gauntlets…

He was being a hypocrite, and he was projecting. He'd done plenty of sexually-related things that would have horrified others, and both him and his partners had always thoroughly enjoyed them. Taking someone while in armour was tame.

Come to think of it, he'd once quite enjoyed going down on a naked Templar - while he, himself had his raging erection hidden inside his full robes - while the Revered Mother slept right next door. Said Templar hadn't been able to hold the woman's gaze for a week after that. Granted, his robes had been leather and fabric, not metal, but that was beside the point. How could he fault Cullen and Hawke for also being creative with their preferences?

It was just… Hawke had seemed cold. Not playful, just cold. And Cullen had been as focused as when he was planning troop movements, at least for the brief moment when Gabriel had dared to look at his face. But if he was into that sort of thing, who was Gabriel to pass judgement?

Just because he… Just because he had imagined it so differently when he had cast himself in the role Hawke had ultimately fulfilled - just because he had pictured kissing every inch of Cullen's body, worshipping it, making love to him face to face, skin on skin, watching the other man come undone - it didn't mean Cullen and Hawke had to share his preferences.

And it didn't mean they _didn't_ share them either. He had no idea what else they had done, or if there had been plenty of lovemaking already that week - that _day_ , even - and they were only mixing it up, keeping it interesting.

He knew nothing, other the fact that it was _him_ Cullen didn't want, not men in general.

Sleep didn't come at all that night and, when the first light of dawn graced his window, he got up. He hadn't gotten any work done the previous night, he needed to make up for it.

And, if he wondered if Cullen was waking up safely ensconced in his lover's arms back in his tower, he firmly stomped down on that errant thought. It was no business of his whose arms Cullen chose to wake up in.


	3. Three

**Author's Note:** There is a graphic rape scene in this chapter. If you would prefer to skip it, chapter 8 will contain a non-graphic retelling of it.

Crossing paths with Hawke unsettled him. There was no other word for it. The Champion's presence left him unsettled, a painful reminder of the ten years of his life Cullen most wished to forget. Curious, then, that Varric's presence had no such effect; perhaps because Hawke had always been overtly in the thick of things, while Varric was a more subtle player? No matter. Unsettled or not, he could be courteous enough to not let it show.

It would just have to do.

It was late - so late that he had already shed his armour and was methodically sorting through reports and personnel requisitions in only a tunic and plain trousers - and he wasn't expecting visitors. Yet, when he heard his door open and close he was so engrossed in a report that it took him a minute to look up. As if summoned by his thoughts Hawke was there, a coldness behind his eyes that chilled Cullen to the core.

"Hello, Commander. It _is_ Commander these days, isn't it?"

"Yes," he replied curtly, eager to get the meeting over with, "May I be of assistance?"

"Such a loftier title than Knight-Captain, wouldn't you say," Hawke carried on as if he hadn't heard him, "leader of the Inquisition's forces. It _commands_ respect, if you'll pardon the pun."

Cullen was feeling decidedly uncomfortable.

"Was there anything you needed?"

Hawke approached his desk slowly and then placed both hands on the desk, leaning in conspiratorially.

"Tell me, _Commander_ : have you _commanded_ a lot of people to their deaths lately?"

He felt the force of the Champion's words as if he'd been punched in the gut. _Haven_.

"I... Yes. Haven's defence was my responsibility."

"Oh, isn't this _fun_? Here we are, reunited, and I find you haven't changed one bit!"

Cullen wanted to say something - anything - but he had no reasons, no excuses to offer. Haven had been his responsibility, its people had trusted him to defend them and he'd failed them. Would have failed them even more thoroughly if it hadn't been for Gabriel's bravery and Chancellor Roderick's Summer Pilgrimage. He remained silent.

"And these people you commanded to their deaths, did you take pains to recruit them to your cause yourself while their siblings were away trying to provide them with a better life? Or is that a thing from the past now that you've become so important?"

"...What?"

"You know, like you did with my brother! Carver Hawke, remember him? Stubborn, pig-headed, sullen brunette? Always acts as if the world owes him something, has trouble following orders but can be loyal to a fault? Or did you do the same to so many others you can't even recall him?"

Of course Cullen remembered Carver Hawke, although he'd never had a problem with him following orders. He'd recruited him when Hawke had left for his infamous Deep Roads expedition while making his brother stay behind. It had seemed to him then as if he'd helped give the younger man's life the purpose that it lacked, and he had proven to be a fine Templar. Carver Hawke had served under him in Kirkwall for years.

"I do recall your brother. He-"

"Oh you do," Hawke interrupted, "so was it just temporarily that you forgot him? When you left him behind in Kirkwall so you could accept your very important new position?"

The vitriol in Hawke's tone, while baffling, was beginning to get on his nerves.

"Your brother is a grown man, Hawke. Yes, I recruited him into the Order, but he went of his own volition. I did not coerce him or lie to him. I also did not adopt him, for you to accuse me of leaving him behind in Kirkwall. He's entitled to lead his life the way he sees fit."

Hawke's angry face was suddenly inches from his own, his voice so low with rage and hurt Cullen had to make an effort to make out the words.

"He _has_ no life to lead. You left him behind and he became a Red Templar like the rest of them. He'd turned into a behemoth by the time I found him - he could no longer even speak. I had to kill my own brother because you couldn't leave well enough alone and had to recruit him for the precious Order you abandoned."

Everything left him as soon as it had come, his unease, his annoyance... One more death he was responsible for. Could he have made it better? Had he asked Carver Hawke to leave Kirkwall with him to join the Inquisition, would he have followed? Would any of them in those uncertain times? Would _Samson_ have followed and, if so, would Corypheus have found a suitable general in time? And if he had managed to persuade Gabriel to recruit the Templars instead of the mages to help him close the Breach, how many of his former Order mates would have been saved? There was no end to the blood on his hands. He'd saved himself at the expense of countless others. He bowed his head and closed his eyes.

"There are no words to convey my regret, Hawke. If there is anything I can do, anything at all..."

"What? What could you do that you have imagined would lessen the death of my brother? Get down on your knees, _Commander_? Kiss my boots, perhaps? Is that a part of the _anything_ you would purportedly do? Would that make up for the loss of _your_ brother if it were the other way around?"

Of course not. There was nothing, nothing Cullen could do to minimise the suffering he had wrought.

"Forgive me, I-"

Hawke circled the desk with the ability and intent of a predator, standing uncomfortably close to the Commander and silencing him with two hate-filled words.

" _Do it._ "

He looked at Hawke, stunned into silence. The cold hatred in the Champion's eyes prompted him to do as he was told. If Hawke believed this would ameliorate a fraction of his grief then Cullen owed him that much.

On his knees before the mage he bowed and kissed the other man's boot, the metal cold against his lips, humiliation washing through him.

"Now the other one."

He complied, looking for all intents and purposes like a supplicant before a king. Hawke's booted foot rose and slid softly along his face, a parody of a caress, sharp edges just on the verge of breaking open his skin.

"Good. There you go. Good boy. Now, where's my brother?"

Cullen's eyes shot up, confusion warring with humiliation. Hawke kept talking, his voice soft and low.

"You've gone down on your knees, kissed my feet, that's supposed to make everything alright, isn't it? So where's Carver, healthy and alive, now that you've fixed everything? Where's my brother, _Commander_?"

He opened his mouth to reply, not really knowing what to say, but Hawke pulled him swiftly to his feet and punched him in the gut with his right hand, gauntleted fist making Cullen double over in pain and knocking the breath out of him. He could have fought back. He didn't.

"Don't you dare say a word. Not one word, you murderer, or so help me, I won't be held accountable for my actions."

The Champion's left hand came up underneath Cullen's chin, bare fingers grazing his neck in warning. The former Templar felt paralysed. Had Hawke resorted to blood magic he'd have known how to act, but he had no defence against this, a mage using only his words and fists as weapons.

He hadn't expected the rest, hadn't expected Hawke to turn him around to face the desk, to slam his forearms against the flat surface, and to press up behind him, the fabric of Cullen's tunic getting caught in the Champion's mantle where the breastplate met it and tearing a little. Hadn't expected Hawke to whisper in his ear with that same soft, hate-filled voice.

"His body was twisted into something so grotesque I barely recognised him. My own brother and I barely recognised him. All because of _you_."

The tunic got caught in the breastplate again and Hawke grabbed it with both hands and tore it apart, enraged with the distraction. Then it was Cullen's naked back getting nicked by the mantle when the Champion pressed close once more.

How could Cullen fight back when he so richly deserved it?

How many mages had felt just as powerless as he did now back in the Gallows? Worse than what he felt now, with the casual threat of Tranquility looming over their heads? While he stood by and did nothing, while he got down on his knees and prayed for guidance rather than acting, while he fooled himself into believing the rumours were false, started by someone intent on sowing dissent? He should have protected them, but hadn't. Why should he protect himself now?

"You fled back here to your cushy job and your Inquisition while everyone else died." His voice broke. "While my _brother_ died." A sob. "Worse than that, while he _lived_ , twisted and suffering, as that _thing_ you led him to become. Have you any idea what he went through? What it is to have your own body turned against you?"

"Hawke-"

What little self control Hawke still seemed to possess vanished with Cullen's single utterance. Cullen was shoved impossibly close to the desk and the Champion's hands pulled on the former Templar's trousers until they, too, tore along with his underthings, their remains pooling on the floor around his ankles.

"I'll show you an inkling of what that's like."

Cullen's mind was screaming, begging, pleading Hawke to stop, to not go through with this madness, that it wouldn't help anything, but it was as if his throat had closed up and no words came out.

He heard, as if he were a casual observer, the sound of Hawke unfastening his belt, taking his own member out. Felt it stiffening against his backside.

This couldn't be happening. Maker please, this had to be a nightmare. He'd so often thought of going to Gabriel's quarters, of giving himself to the Inquisitor even if only for the novelty of having a virgin Templar to play with, just one night to indulge in his deepest wish, and Hawke was going to take that away.

And he deserved it.

Deserved it for what had happened to Carver, to the Order, to the mages under his care in Kirkwall. Deserved it for having had the audacity to still want to go to Gabriel despite everything he'd allowed to be done to mages in his life. Deserved all of this and more. He remained pliant, accepting his punishment.

Hawke's gauntleted palm pressed down on his back, splaying him against the desk, his arse jutting out. Something in his complacency seemed to infuriate the Champion, whose tone had grown even more vicious.

"I'm going to take you dry. I'm going to take you dry and it's going to tear you inside, and then maybe you'll know a little of what he went through."

 _Cullen on his knees in a cage made of magic. Seductive whispers of demons for days, promises of untold pleasure, everything he could ever want and more, all denied. Hoping for death. His friends being murdered all around him, Maker, why had they singled him out to live? And then the demons deciding that, if he wasn't going to break, they might as well bend him, and they had weeks to do it._

 _The long horn of a desire demon penetrating him, taking him dry, first chaffing then tearing, burning, cutting, his once tight hole so wide and gaping now, he would never walk upright again, the damage to his body too extensive-_

That had all been only in his mind. A trick of the demons, felt but not actually there, a construct to torment him with.

This was real.

Panic set in. He deserved it, but he couldn't let Hawke take him dry, not dry, not dry, not dry, and please, please, anything, anything but that, not dry-

It was only when he heard a malicious chuckle that he realised he was speaking aloud, almost chanting the words as a prayer.

"Not dry, you say? Very well," Hawke turned the former Templar's face to the side, to better look at him, "I'll give you a choice. I can take you dry..."

His chest heaved again, terror wanting to claw its way out of his gut, a keening sound that still resembled his mantra of "not dry" and "please" and "I'll do anything."

"... Or I can prepare you. With lyrium. And you are so much luckier than Carver that yours will be the finest dwarven-mined, blue, mage grade lyrium coin can buy. Carver's was _red_."

The fog of terror was pierced by the alluring song of the little blue bottle Hawke had produced from his half-discarded belt. A ray of liquid hope... And his damnation. How did Hawke even know to torment him with this? Not even Gabriel knew he hadn't been taking lyrium.

"Going once."

If Hawke used lyrium it would get in his system. Perhaps faster than drinking it. It would be a terrible relapse and, were he a stronger man, he would not consider it.

"Going twice."

But... To be torn so badly that he couldn't walk, to be so damaged that the chamber pot was an ordeal, to lose control of his bodily functions... _And the demon's horn going deeper and wider and faster, stabbing and tearing, and-_

"Aaaand-"

"Lyrium," he cut across Hawke's gleeful voice, " _please_. Use lyrium."

"Sold, to the naked murdering addict!"

The Champion unstoppered the flask. After so long abstaining, even the smell of lyrium was overpowering, a craving so deep inside his gut while his mind rebelled, calling him weak and a coward. He willed himself to wake up despite knowing this was no nightmare.

Hawke made a show of coating the fingers of his left hand in the blue liquid, of pressing them inside him - his first contact with lyrium in _so long_ \- fast and hard and rough, and _too much_ , and then all too soon it was the blunt tip of the Champion's lyrium-coated cock pressing inside, so rough, he'd never been so full, and it hurt, it hurt, it _hurt_.

Something tore inside him and Hawke's passage was easier after that, even as it burned. The lyrium was in his bloodstream now, but dry would have been worse. He'd torn, but not as badly. He wouldn't be left an invalid.

Without any kind of warning his nose was pinched shut, the remainder of the blue liquid shoved down his throat as he parted his lips to draw breath, and his mouth covered by an unyielding hand before he could take in any air at all. His hand grasped futilely at the one preventing him from breathing, points of light in his vision, but Hawke wouldn't budge. It was only when he swallowed that the hand retreated and he was allowed to gasp for breath, his lungs on fire, his arse still being plunged into over and over and over and over again.

He'd taken a full dose.

Of the finest dwarven-mined mage-grade lyrium coin could buy. He'd never had anything so potent.

"There you go, _Commander_. You got my brother addicted to the stuff and thought you were better than him? You're nothing. And you won't escape the asylum. Maybe one day I'll pay you a visit when you can't even remember your own name."

He didn't want to listen. He didn't want to _feel_. He just had to endure this, and soon it would be over. Slowly his breathing evened out. It was as if he'd left his own body, as if it were happening to someone else. He concentrated on the little things to avoid the weight in his heart and the pain in his backside.

On the way Hawke's breastplate hurt when it tore another bit of his skin.

On the way the other man's armoured boots caught the fine hairs on the back of his legs and pulled.

On the way his own soft cock bounced with each of Hawke's thrusts.

On the ridges in the wood of his desk.

On the bricks in his wall.

On the books lining the bookshelf in front of him.

On chess moves.

On war table operations.

He was completely focused on anything that wasn't Hawke taking him. He would survive this. Had survived worse.

And then his door opened and Gabriel was talking even before getting in, balancing two mugs of mead and a stack of parchments, using his back to fully open the door and so not really taking in the scene before him until he was completely inside the tower.

"Cullen, can you help me go over some of these? I brought mead to bribe you with to help my- _oh_."

He'd never seen Gabriel look like that. For the first few moments he stood, frozen and slack-jawed, while Hawke continued unrelentlessly pounding Cullen. Then something inside him shifted and he was the most courteous, polite, _distant_ impersonation of the mighty noble-born Inquisitor Cullen had ever seen.

"I am terribly sorry for the intrusion, Commander. Hawke. I would suggest you lock the door next time. Carry on."

And he turned and left, not seeing the way Cullen's stoic façade cracked in the wake of Gabriel's retreating back.

 _Commander_ , he'd called him. He never called him Commander anymore unless he was teasing him over chess, but this had been no friendly teasing. He didn't know why, but seeing him being used by Hawke had done something to Gabriel. And Cullen had lost his friend.

A tear trickled down his face.

His body shook with the force of Hawke's thrusts as the Champion sped up, nearing completion. He could feel the pain but couldn't focus on it, couldn't focus on anything except Gabriel. He'd gladly have endured a lifetime of this abuse by Hawke to extend his friendship with Gabriel by a single day. But he'd _lost_ it. And he deserved it.

With one final, powerful thrust Hawke reached his climax, buried to the hilt and still pushing forward and into Cullen's abused hole. Then it was over and Hawke had finally left, tucking himself back in his breeches and leaving without a backwards glance.

Cullen stood there, nauseous, white knuckles still gripping the edge of his desk, for what felt like a very long time.

He knew he was hurt, but the lyrium inside him was making pain a secondary issue. For the first time in so long he could see so much, with perfect clarity... Troop movements he might have done differently, decisions that could have been better informed, even training schedules that needed adjusting...

He was so much more while on lyrium.

And so much less.

With the beautiful, accursed blue liquid coursing through his veins, the look on Gabriel's face when the other man had walked in could be recalled with complete accuracy, yet it didn't seem to matter nearly as much as it ought to. He knew it would matter again eventually, when the lyrium left his system.

 _If_ he stopped taking it.

With everything that he could now see, could he really justify not taking it? Giving so much less to the Inquisition than his full capabilities? To the Inquisitor?

Realising he was wasting time he grabbed some parchment and a quill and started scribbling all the thoughts granted by his lyrium-augmented perception, so he could present them to Gabriel come morning. It was only hours later, when he could no longer grasp them clearly enough to write that he tore himself from his desk, his back protesting furiously, his skin as cold as ice. He was still naked and hadn't bothered to sit.

Painfully he made his way up the ladder, Hawke's seed still inside him making him feel dirty and used, the tears on his back from the Champion's armour stinging, his arse burning from tearing and lyrium. The mage-grade potent dose was fast-acting but also quick to lose its potency; only a few hours and it was already leaving him, clarity of thought blurring and feelings returning in full force.

He had nothing else to offer Gabriel now, no novelty value, no more amusing virgin Templar toy. He'd given it to _Hawke_. But his mind... His mind on lyrium, that still _meant_ something. Still mattered, even if he, himself, no longer did.

Could he not give Gabriel his mind - give it completely, knowing that he would lose it in the end - as that littlest of gifts?

Perhaps the Maker would be kind. Perhaps Cullen could take the lyrium, give his all to the Inquisition and then, by the grace of the Maker, die before the brunt of the side-effects made an appearance. He could hope for that.

His body was worthless now, and his friendship... His friendship, he was certain, was no longer appreciated. Not after the way Gabriel had looked.

So, yes.  
Yes.  
Yes, if Gabriel asked it of him, if Gabriel wanted him to, he'd take the lyrium. He'd be the best Commander he could be.

But... He didn't _want to_. He didn't want to to lose his mind, his fond memories of Gabriel, everything he was, however worthless that might be. He knew that made him selfish, one more sin to his name, but he didn't want to. So, if Gabriel didn't ask it of him, if Gabriel had all the facts and still didn't press, he wouldn't take it. Never again. It might be harder this time than it had been the first time, but he wouldn't take it unless it was what Gabriel clearly wanted.

He'd thought to clean himself and attempt to sleep but, with his decision made, the weight of the guilt was overwhelming. The only thing centring him was the stinging of the cuts on his back, newly opened skin over wounds long closed.

There was something Meredith had taught him - something he hadn't needed to use ever since her death, ever since he'd stopped being tacitly complicit in the abuses going on in the Circle - and it... It might help with the guilt. It always had in the past.

He didn't need to look for it, as he knew exactly where it was - in the false bottom of his trunk, hidden away by a plank so that no one would accidentally find it. His hands were certain as they opened the trunk, as they reached for the cat-o'-nine-tails. The physical pain would help take his mind off his worthlessness.

Meredith had taught him to use it sparingly, to punish himself just enough that he might bear his sins, but never enough that he might be less than effective against a blood mage or an abomination attack. She needed her Knight-Captain in top physical form at all times.

Here in Skyhold he was more tactical than out in the field, and Cassandra was as well equipped as he - better, he might say - to deal with any potential abomination.

Tonight he had no such restraint.

He sat down with the cat in hand, its strips deceptively smooth at first glance, grabbed the handle just so and began whispering in time with his strokes, mentally counting each one.

"Blessed are they who stand before"  
 _One._

"The corrupt and the wicked and do not falter."  
 _Two._

"Blessed are the peacekeepers,"  
 _Three._

"The champions of the just."  
 _Four_

"Blessed are the righteous,"  
 _Five._

"The lights in the shadow."  
 _Six._

"In their blood the Maker's will is written."  
 _Seven._

He didn't stop until he could no longer lift his arm, until he had long stopped being able to pray, until even the mental count eluded him; until dawn was fast approaching, judging by the light he could see through the hole in his roof. Yet, for him, it seemed dawn never came.

Warm blood ran down his back in rivulets as warm tears made a matching pair across his cheeks, and it still wasn't enough. Nothing was enough to numb his sense of worthlessness, but oblivion helped while it lasted. That was his last thought before slipping from the small wooden bench he'd sat on and falling to the floor, unconscious at last.


	4. Four

His back was on fire, white-hot fire, pure agony. He was aware of it even before he fully woke up.

Then the rest of the sensations came, the ache in the muscles of his arm, the coppery smell, the stickiness of the mix of Hawke's seed with his own blood where it still clung to his skin, the pain of the bruise blossoming on his stomach where he'd been punched, and everything came flooding back to him.

He'd never been so vicious with the cat, not even remotely, but he had to function regardless. Already his overindulgence was hurting the Inquisition, judging by the position of the sun in the sky. He'd been unconscious until nearly midday.

Acting as Meredith had taught him he took a second item from the bottom of his trunk - a bag of rock salt - and grabbed a handful, mixing it with water from the jar he kept near his basin. It helped stave off the infection without the need to see a healer, but pouring it down his abused back was fresh agony.

Then he cleaned the rest of his body, wiped away the remaining traces of Hawke's use, and - very slowly - got dressed and put his armour on. Maybe if he'd had it on the previous night things wouldn't have escalated the way they had.

Climbing down the ladder was a lengthy process, especially since he didn't trust his right arm. Perhaps he should see a healer about the muscles in his arm - and _only_ the muscles in his arm - before beginning work in earnest; he was useless in training if he couldn't hold a sword.

He was on his way out the door to see the healer when he saw the parchment with all his thoughts from the night before. At least in this he'd be valuable to Gabriel. To his Lord Inquisitor, if Gabriel was forever beyond his reach.

But he couldn't make sense of it. He could _read_ it despite the cramped handwriting, but his brain just wasn't operating at the same level as it was when he was on lyrium.

One more failure. Maker, how could he justify not taking it? He had to get to Gabriel. Had to tell him how he'd been misled, how Cullen wasn't as effective as he could be.

His foot hit the side of the desk and his inkpot rolled towards the ground. The sudden movement he unconsciously made to grab it caused a stab of pain up his right arm towards his shoulder and his nerveless fingers couldn't close over the inkpot, that continued to fall until it shattered on the stone floor. He really needed to see the healer first.

* * *

The morning had been a productive one, even if he had been avoiding the general vicinity of Cullen's tower. He would have to face his Commander sooner or later but, for now, later was preferable by far.

Of course, just as he was mentally congratulating himself on a successful avoidance plan, _Hawke_ materialised right in front of him outside the War Room. Lovely.

"Inquisitor," the other man greeted congenially, "just the man I was looking for!"

"Champion," he replied tersely. He remembered having a tooth pulled as a child. It hadn't been this painful.

"I wanted to thank you for your lovely hospitality. It's been a pleasure, and seeing Varric again has been rather refreshing. You have the beginnings of an impressive fortress here. I can't wait to lay my eyes on it once you've completed all your renovations. Walk with me?"

Feeling like the outsider in his own castle, Gabriel did. He'd rather have been anywhere but here. He'd rather have been _Varric_ , facing Cassandra's wrath, and that was saying quite a lot.

They walked for nearly an hour, side by side, Hawke doing most of the talking, criticising this choice, praising that one, always a carrot for when the stick began to grate on Gabriel's nerves. Where he'd found Hawke cordial enough, if a bit overwhelming, all week, he now couldn't wait to get away. The man came across as the darker side of Vivienne, only Vivienne's charm was real. It was nearly lunch time. Didn't the mage have better things to do than talk his ear off about everything and nothing?

They came to a stop near The Herald's Rest, where an Inquisition agent was waiting with all of Hawke's belongings neatly packed. An _Inquisition_ agent. He strutted around as if he owned the place.

"My dear Inquisitor, I'm afraid I have to leave for now. I had planned on sticking around for a bit, but it turns out I have other matters that need my attention. Have Varric send me a raven as soon as you're ready to depart for Crestwood, and I'll meet you there. I'll try to come visit the Inquisition before Bloomingtide if I can."

Gabriel nodded in assent. Hawke was leaving for now. That would spare him, Gabriel, some embarrassment.

"By the way, have you seen Cullen? I tried to find him in his tower but unlike yesterday, his door was locked."

And there it was. The intense stab of jealousy even as heat suffused his cheeks. He swallowed.

"His door is only ever locked when he isn't there. Have you tried the battlements? He sometimes goes there for air."

"I didn't, but time is coin, as they say. Give him my goodbyes for me when you see him? Ah, Varric!" The dwarf had walked up to them and clapped the Champion on the back in a friendly gesture. "Here to see me off? Well, off we go then." He took off his right gauntlet and extended a hand, which Gabriel dutifully shook before letting go as soon as he'd held it enough to be just on the right side of polite. And then he was finally off.

Watching Hawke's retreating back, Gabriel struggled to understand. Hawke had wasted an hour talking to him about nothing in particular but couldn't be arsed to go find his lover to say goodbye to?

He felt sick. Cullen deserved _better_. Once again it was the jealousy talking. The former Templar had chosen Hawke and so Gabriel had to find fault with everything Hawke did. But he felt unreasonably angry that the Champion hadn't made it a point to say goodbye to his lover before departing. Had it been him... If Cullen had chosen him instead he'd never leave Skyhold without saying goodbye, no matter how short a journey.

Disgusted with himself he ignored the lunch bell and made straight for the training grounds. He could go to the cook later for food; right now he needed to set fire to something, and the training dummies would serve just fine.

* * *

Well over an hour later, with his arm functioning normally and only his back - both his upper back and his backside - hurting, he was on his way to the training grounds, to ask Cassandra to help with the troops that afternoon, when he spotted Gabriel outside The Herald's Rest - talking to Hawke.

He froze, his heart suddenly about to explode, holding his breath. The two men hadn't seen him yet, seemed to be making polite conversation, and Gabriel looked tremendously uncomfortable. Was Hawke telling him the truth? That Cullen had begged for lyrium?

He took a step back, then another, then one more, never taking his eyes off the pair of men. Hawke had too much gear to be going to the guest quarters, and Gabriel was in his finery rather than geared to go out. Then Varric approached, clapped Hawke on the back and the Champion shook the Inquisitor's hand before they parted, Varric walking with Hawke in the direction of the courtyard.

Still finding it hard to breathe he turned left and up the stairs, then ran across the battlements, trying to follow them without being seen. The Maker must have heard his prayers. From his vantage point he saw Varric saying his goodbyes at the gates and them closing behind Hawke. The Champion was gone from Skyhold.

He stood rooted to the spot, trying to control his breathing, well past the lunch bell.

As the wave of adrenaline ebbed he became aware of his splitting headache, complete with rising nausea. A shot of lyrium would help. How he missed it, missed its certainty, its comforting song, the order it brought to his life. He wished he could have just a taste. It would help with the fiery pain in his back as well - although he knew he had never before flogged himself even remotely so aggressively, lyrium had always allowed him to better ignore the pain. The craving hadn't been this strong since those first days of abstinence in Kirkwall.

In no fit state to confront Gabriel he made for the kitchen. He had skipped lunch and between his headache and the nausea wasn't hungry, but to have something else to focus on would help calm his frayed nerves, and he knew he had lost some blood that would need to be replenished. Food would help.

Clearly the Maker had answered enough of his prayers for the day, because the first person he saw upon entering the kitchen was Gabriel, pestering the cook.

Their eyes met, and Gabriel's were cold while Cullen shattered anew.

"Commander," a curt nod, "Hawke left. He wanted to say his goodbyes, but you were nowhere to be found. He'll be back, possibly before Bloomingtide."

Hawke would be back. In less than two months. He felt as though the ground had opened up before him and he couldn't breathe again. While he was busy not showing his panic Gabriel had already moved past him and was out the door, forcing him to rush after him, his back in agony because of his speed, warring with his head for attention, the tears in his arse stinging almost enough to make his eyes water.

"Gabriel. Gabriel, wait!"

"I am rather busy, Commander," the other man replied without breaking stride, "can it wait?"

"I- Gabriel... Inquisitor." He was still walking away from him. "It's Inquisition business."

Gabriel stopped abruptly and turned to face him, clearly annoyed. He forged ahead.

"There's something we need to discuss and it... It's important."

"Can you bring it up with either Leliana or Josephine? Like I said, I'm rather busy."

It hurt so deep to see Gabriel so cold... The other man always had time for everyone, he always _made_ time. It didn't matter how small the complaint, how menial the task, if someone needed him, he was personally available. Yet now, after witnessing Hawke making use of Cullen, the Inquisitor no longer had time for him. Gabriel obviously _despised_ him. He only wished he knew why.

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. If it hadn't been so serious a subject he'd have dropped it and never bothered Gabriel again.

"If... If I have somehow offended, I apologise. And if there is anything I can do to make amends, anything at all, you only have to say so. But I truly need to speak with you. _Please_."

For a moment Gabriel looked startled at his pleading tone. Then he let out a long exhale, dragging his hand over his face and through his hair, making dark locks stick out at odd angles. His eyes and voice regained their familiar warmth and he bridged the distance between himself and Cullen, placing his hand on the Commander's arm.

"No, don't say that. I'm the one who should be apologising, not you, Cullen. You've done nothing wrong and I'm... I'm taking something out on you that is no fault of yours. Forgive me? Please?"

There was nothing in all of Thedas - no craving, no pain, no headache - that could dampen his elation. He hadn't lost Gabriel's friendship. It was the one thing in his life that truly meant something, and he hadn't lost it. A smile, small but genuine, blossomed on his lips. He wished he could feel the warmth of the other man's fingers through his armour, where they rested on his arm, but it was enough to know they rested there.

"Of course. I am relieved to know I haven't offended you."

"I'm really sorry for the way I acted, Cullen. It was beneath me and you didn't deserve it. What was it you needed? Do you want me to call a War Room meeting?"

"I was hoping we could talk somewhere more private?"

"Er... Sure. Your office?"

 _Hawke behind him, hurting him, ploughing away as if he were nothing. Lyrium in his arse, down his throat, and Hawke kept going, going, going-_

"Cullen? Are you alright? You're as white as a sheet."

"It's nothing," he said, but Gabriel didn't look convinced, "a headache, and part of what I wanted to talk to you about, but I'd rather we go somewhere else? By the chessboard, perhaps? I'm not in the mood for a game, but sitting there would be nice."

"Lead the way."

Their little chess corner was peacefully quiet when they arrived. It was a balm to be here, with a Gabriel who was once again his friend, willing to listen to him. Whatever Gabriel wanted him to do about the lyrium he'd do, no questions asked. Gabriel deserved only the best of him, and that wasn't all that much.

He'd been wracking his mind for an opening, a way to begin, the entire time, but his back - that, in addition to hurting, was beginning to itch - and his head kept distracting him, and he felt dizzy from the pain. Sitting down heavily - then regretting sitting down at all, as the pain from Hawke's use made itself more prominent - while Gabriel followed suit with much more grace, he began.

"Gabriel, I... As leader of the Inquisition, there's something I must tell you."

Gabriel's encouraging smile was all he needed to continue.

"I... How much do you know about Templars and lyrium?"

"I known you take it from the moment you take your vows. That it augments your abilities. And that you take a weird version of it, one that lasts a lot longer but is nowhere near as powerful.

"Back in Ostwick I took Templar-lyrium once - there was a mix-up with labeling - and it was _terrible_. We were still apprentices and part of our duties included incinerating garbage. I needed to sustain the fire spell or it just wasn't effective, but I'd spent half the night using my mana for... other activities," Gabriel's innuendo was not lost on him, "and I needed a boost.

"Didn't give me the boost I needed to maintain raging fire level, but then it didn't fizzle out either as it would have if I'd run out of mana. The other apprentices mocked me for weeks as the mage who would have given garbage a nice cosy home to come in from the cold." Gabriel laughed.

"I swear I saw a cockroach coming _closer_ to the bloody fire. On _purpose_. But the stuff takes forever to get out of your system. It was a good twelve hours and it was still active. By then my mana had more than replenished itself and it was... The best way to describe it is when you've eaten a whole meal, you're full, and then you spend the rest of the day eating more and more and more. It's nauseating. Ugh."

Despite the gravity of what he was about to disclose Cullen couldn't help but smile at the thought of a young Gabriel trying to burn garbage and warming it up instead.

Although... His thoughts turned somber. Gabriel was still warming garbage up and giving it a home after all this time, if the way he made Cullen feel was any indication. He shook his head - promptly regretting that course of action when nausea reared its ugly head - and continued.

"Lyrium grants Templars our abilities, yes, but it controls us as well. Those cut off suffer: some go mad; others die. We have secured a reliable source of lyrium for the Templars here, but I..." The feeling of wrongness, of lying to Gabriel by not mentioning the lyrium he'd had only the previous night, nearly made him choke on the words. "I no longer take it."

That made Gabriel's smile falter, and Cullen's heart clenched at the sight. The other man would want him to go back on his leash. Gabriel's voice was carefully neutral. "You stopped?"

"When I joined the Inquisition. It's been months now." Months since he'd stopped, but less than a day since he'd had it. Since he'd begged. Maker, he was a coward.

"Cullen, why? You just said this can kill you..."

"It hasn't yet. And taking it is just as likely to kill me or drive me mad in the long run. Templars who live to reach old age, they're... Their mind isn't all there.

"At one point I thought it was the withdrawal, but I've come to believe that prolonged effects of lyrium use are not dissimilar to withdrawal effects. It ends up being toxic to all but mages and dwarves, only it takes longer with Templars than with regular people.

"After what happened in Kirkwall... I couldn't. I didn't want to be bound to the Order - or that life - any longer. Whatever the suffering, I accept it.

"But I would not put the Inquisition at risk. I have asked Cassandra to... watch me. If my ability to lead is compromised, I will be relieved from duty."

"Relieved from- you're our Commander. This army is what you make of it. If you think you'd be relieved of command just like that..." Gabriel trailed off what seemed to be the beginning of a rant. His tone was displeased, to say the least, but it warmed up as he asked, "Are you in pain?"

"I can endure it. There are worse days than others. Headaches and nausea are more common than other effects, but other types of pain can manifest as well. Some days it can be incapacitating. You might have need of me on a day where I cannot deliver.

"But it's not even that. I haven't been giving you - the Inquisition - my all. It's not just my Templar abilities that it enhances. Lyrium makes me think better, see more clearly. There are entire scenarios I cannot envision without it. I am... _less_ without it. Less effective, more prone to error," he exhaled, "I've been doing you a disservice by keeping this from you. You should have a say in this.

"I have... I need to admit that I have been selfish in giving you - the Inquisition - rather less than what I could. If..." Getting these words out was like a knife in his gut, "If you feel I should go back to it, I will. I can become better."

"Sod the Inquisition," Gabriel said abruptly and rather viciously. Then, gently this time, "This is... It's incredibly brave, what you're doing. And my knee-jerk reaction would be to ask you to go back to the stuff the moment you said it could kill you or drive you mad, but if it was going to do that even with you taking it, then maybe by going off it so soon you're actually preventing that.

"But if you think I'd reward your loyalty by removing you from command after everything you've given you've got another thing coming. The Chantry may have used you like a tool, but I have no inclination to do the same."

Cullen was startled and moved by the fire in Gabriel's green eyes. _'Sod the Inquisition.'_ Leave it to Gabriel to make him love him all the more by cursing like a dwarf.

"Thank you, Gabriel, I... _Thank you_. But the Inquisition's army must always take priority. Should something happen... I will defer to Cassandra's judgment."

"And she will defer to mine. And if you all wanted something different you shouldn't have put me in charge. By the way, if the tactics you've been developing these months are what you'd call 'less,' well, let's just say I might start pitying Corypheus if you were to do more. Give the ancient Darkspawn a fighting chance, will you? Not very sporting otherwise."

Gabriel's nonchalance might have brought a smile to Cullen's lips if it hadn't been for-

"... Haven. My tactics weren't nearly enough there. My tactics costed lives." His tone was subdued. "Would have cost _you_ yours too if you weren't so resilient."

The Inquisitor gave a mock gasp. "You mean to tell me that, had you been taking lyrium, you'd have deduced that a giant whole in the sky was the work of an ancient Tevinter magister turned Darkspawn, and that he'd been amassing an army? My, those _are_ some supernatural abilities that the stuff grants you!"

"Gabriel-"

"No. Cullen. No. No one could have predicted Haven. You did the best with what we had, and you saved so many... You need to let go of that guilt. No one could have done better."

"Says the man who nearly died because I wasn't prepared to defend the city."

"Says the man who's only alive because you went out looking for him in the snow when any sane person would have given up the search by then."

The breath caught in his throat.

There had never been another moment when he had so completely longed to kiss Gabriel. It was... It might have been a good thing for his resolve that Hawke had rendered his novelty value null and void the night before, or he might have forgotten that Gabriel deserved much better and kissed him regardless. Just one kiss would have been the memory of a lifetime.

But he'd never been worthy of that, and if he were to tell Gabriel why - if he were to tell him about Kinloch Hold and the Gallows - he'd lose his friendship for good. He couldn't do that. It was a conscious decision, to keep deceiving Gabriel into being his friend, and it only underscored Cullen's own unworthiness. He felt a twinge in his gut for once unrelated to the pain pulsing where Hawke had punched him.

"You are far too forgiving. With everyone. It might prove your undoing one day."

"And you are far too _un_ forgiving with yourself. I wish I could get you to stop that. Now, about the lyrium," diamond-hard glittering green eyes met his own, "you are not, under any circumstance to go back to the stuff if you're only doing it for the good of the Inquisition. If it's for yourself, if the withdrawal is killing you then, by all means, take it. But not if you're doing it to give more. You give more than enough already. That's an order. Understood?"

Heart overflowing with the kindness he was being offered Cullen agreed.

"Understood. Thank you."

"Good. And if there's anything I can do to help you, you can always count on me. No matter the hour. I mean that. How about healing? Would that help with the side effects?"

"I tried Spirit Healing, but it doesn't seem to do much. Perhaps because the effects are caused by lyrium, I don't know. But, once more, thank you."

"And food? You look terrible. I take it today is one of those bad days? Have you eaten?"

"Not yet, no," he admitted.

"Then stay here, I'll go get us some food."

"Thank you, but I need to be going. I didn't do the morning exercises with the troops and it's past the lunch bell already-"

"I'll get Cassandra to do it. You look as if a feather could knock you over. No arguing. Cass can take over for the afternoon and I'm getting us food."

And he did, coming back sometime later with bread and broth that Cullen was sure had been made especially to help with his nausea. Staying with him, eating with him, helping him up from the chair when getting up on his own proved to be too much, walking with him to the tower, his previous pressing business forgotten.

He didn't deserve even an iota of this kindness, this care, this loyalty. But he had it, and he couldn't part with it. Not while Gabriel was willing to give it. So he'd keep it while he could, and thank the Maker every day for it.


	5. Five

"Zombies, Dorian. Maker-forsaken zombies. Water-swollen Maker-forsaken zombies. At the bottom of a lake. I should have brought you along."

Dorian laughed, his perfectly coiffed mustache rising and falling in sync.

"Me? Why in Thedas for? The dead were already raised, you had no need of my - admittedly many and varied - talents. I'm sure Vivienne found them far more fascinating than I ever could."

"You are a horrible person. I ought to shave half your mustache while you sleep."

Dorian frowned, although his eyes didn't lose their mirth.

"Come now, there is never a need to threaten a man's facial hair. Which you would know, if you had any."

Gabriel eyed him suspiciously, adjusting his position in the library chair.

"That's it? You're going to let that slide with only a comment on how I like to shave? Alright, who are you and what have you done with Dorian?"

Another peel of laughter. More than amused, the Tevinter mage sounded genuinely happy.

"You'd fight the impostor to get me back? Good man!"

"Riiiight. Now quit stalling and spill. What happened in these weeks I was away that has you floating like that?"

Dorian's smile never wavered, but it turned calmer, gentler.

"As insane as it seemed when I first got here, you were right about the south. I don't know what I expected to find, but it certainly wasn't... Well."

Blushing. Dorian Pavus, Tevinter Altus extraordinaire, tremendously gifted necromancer, sweet talker and all-around perfect specimen of human man was _blushing_. So fiercely even his ears were red. This had to be good.

"Well? Well what? Spill!"

"It wasn't a man so insistent on starting a... A _relationship_." He said the word as if it were a shameful secret, but happiness was still oozing from his every pore. His voice dropped to a whisper. "With me, in case that wasn't obvious."

Gabriel broke into a grin, his previous whining about zombies all but forgotten. Dorian was one of his best friends, and he certainly deserved this. Plus, with the way his own love life was disastrously non-existent, he might as well live vicariously through his friends'. He straightened in his chair only to lean forward, cheek on his palm.

"I'm so happy for you, Dorian! I want to hear all about it. Be as detailed as you'd like."

He wiggled his eyebrows and Dorian laughed again, still blushing.

"I don't know that I'm allowed to give details for now, but I'll be sure to ask later. You'll go down in history as Gabriel Trevelyan, the Perverted Inquisitor, never fear."

"Wha- you can't leave me hanging like that! That violates one of the Unspoken Friendship Principles of the South, I'll have you know."

"Well, what can I say? I'm a rebel no matter where I am."

"Dorian!" His tone was as petulant as a child's even as he was still grinning. "You have to give me _something_! At least tell me how it started. Did he go after you, or you him? Who kissed who first?"

"Ah, so it's Gabriel Trevelyan, the Closet Romantic, then? Here to hear all about my dashing blond knight in shining lion armour?"

Gabriel's grin suddenly felt artificial and empty, fixed in place by an illusion so hard to maintain that it made his cheeks hurt. _Cullen_? Dorian and Cullen were together? What had happened to Hawke? Hawke, who Gabriel had just left in Crestwood a few days ago, Hawke who had casually inquired about the Commander's well being? And was it worse for Gabriel, or better, that Cullen was with Dorian instead?

It was both. A little bit of both.

It was better in a way - Dorian was someone worthy of Cullen, someone who would treat him right, be by his side. Someone who would help him through the lyrium withdrawal, not leave Skyhold without so much as a by your leave after wasting more than an hour idly chatting to someone else, and on a morning when Cullen was so clearly vulnerable, no less. Someone who wouldn't say he'd be back only to delay it even knowing what his lover was going through. Someone who would give Cullen everything he had to give, and that was quite a lot.

It was also far, far worse. If Cullen was with Dorian, then Gabriel had already asked to hear details and there was no gracious way of backtracking out of that pit of hurt. If he was with Dorian then Gabriel couldn't even hope - no, not hope, just hopelessly fantasise - to win Cullen's affections, to one day have him for his own without a dose of guilt. Dorian was his _friend_ , and a good one at that. He didn't deserve to have Gabriel pining for his partner.

"... Gabriel? Are you simply so astounded by my magnificence that you can't bring yourself to form words, or do I have something on my mustache? Maker forbid, it isn't askance, is it?"

Gabriel got up nervously, heart thudding in his ears.

"No, I- it's fine. I was just surprised. I'm glad for you both. I'm sorry, I just remembered something I have to do." He couldn't look Dorian in the eye. "Please know I wish you and Cullen all the happiness in the world."

He flinched at the incredulous laugh coming from the Altus, who rose from his own chair as well.

" _Cullen_? Maker's breath, man, you must be mad! I like my internal organs to remain on the inside, preferably uncooked by fireballs, thank you very much. I wouldn't try to take your Cullen out from under you. And, _oh_ , the possibilities of what I just said are simply delicious."

Gabriel stared, incredulous.

" _My_ Cullen? He's not my Cullen."

"Right. And I'm not an incredibly talented Altus who just so happens to be fabulously handsome."

Gabriel sat back down, confused.

"But you just said 'dashing blond knight'-"

"Michel. I meant Michel."

"Mich- de Chevin? _That_ dashing blond knight in shining lion armour?"

Gabriel's breathing was easier now that the entirety of Thedas wasn't compressing his chest. He hadn't had much opportunity to talk to de Chevin since recruiting him but, from what little they had spoken, he gathered there was a tragic story there and a strong moral code. Even not knowing him all that well he had the sense the Chevalier would be a worthy partner for Dorian.

Ugh, Andraste's dimpled buttcheeks, he really was a closet romantic, wasn't he? His smile was back to being genuine and didn't feel brittle anymore.

"Yes, _that_ one."

"... Oh. Congratulations, Dorian. And details, please."

"Ah. So you've remembered that you _don't_ have that something to do after all? But he's not _your_ Cullen. Where in the Unspoken Friendship Principles of the South does it say that one friend ought to share his love life while the other one hides his own?"

Dorian's tone was teasing, gently coaxing, not offended or insulted, but Gabriel had no love tale to regale him with.

"I didn't say I didn't _want_ him to be. But he doesn't want me, so that's the end of it."

" _He_ doesn't want _you_? Are we talking about the same Cullen, here? Athletic, blond, curly haired Commander of the Inquisition, fairly tall, scar on his lip, lights up when you enter the room, _that_ Cullen?"

He let his head fall forward, face almost between his knees, elbows bracing on his legs, both hands pulling his hair back in a ficticious ponytail, and exhaled slowly. Dorian was his friend, it wouldn't do to attack him over his good intentions.

"He doesn't 'light up' when I enter the room, Dorian," he replied, hurt bubbling up again, "and it's cruel of you to say so. I get that you think you're being kind, but you're being cruel. Not everyone gets their happy ending just because you fell in love and were requited."

A ringed hand fell on his shoulder, its pressure comforting.

"My dear man, I would never tell you I had seen something there if I hadn't, especially not in this. The only reason why you don't notice the difference is because you never see our Commander when you're not with him.

"When you're around him that long uncomfortable stick he has shoved up his arse seems to be just on the right side of flexible; he laughs more - he laughs with his _eyes_ , even. It's positively terrifying.

"It's subtle to the untrained eye, but I know pining when I see it, and the two of you seem to be professionals. You can't honestly tell me you truly think there's no chance."

Gabriel lifted his head to look into Dorian's concerned eyes.

"I don't _think_ anything, he flat out told me. That he'd like to have me as a friend, nothing more." Another exhale, more fiddling with his hair. "So we're friends."

"Maybe there's another explanation? Perhaps as a Templar he took a vow of chastity and doesn't want to break it? You southerners have strange ideas."

"He's _with_ someone. It's half of why I was so caught off guard when I thought you and he..." he trailed off.

"With someome. A woman?"

"A man. And I accidentally walked in on them, there is no vow of chastity, believe me."

It comforted and disturbed him in equal measure that Dorian's eyes, that he was sure would hold no small amount of glee at the thought of someone walking in on the Commander under different circumstances, held nothing but sympathy for him. Maker, he was so far gone it was pathetic, and he still had no clue how to go about getting over his feelings for Cullen.

"Gabriel, I don't know what to say to that. I do know what I see. Like I said earlier, he lights up when you are near. I wouldn't joke about that."

"Well, maybe he feels lighter when he knows the Anchor is in the room. Maybe he feels he can better protect everyone else with me around to close any rifts that open, so he isn't quite as stressed. But, whatever it is, it isn't... It- it isn't _love_. And, Void take me, Dorian, I love him. So. Bloody. Much.

"Sodding Maker, it's like one of those stupid clichés from the novels that used to be masquerading as books on magical theory back in the Circle. Sometimes when I see him I have to remind myself to breathe or I'll forget and run out of air. He's... He's everything. But he's not _my_ Cullen, and I'd really appreciate it if you didn't refer to him as such.

"Now, for the love of the Maker, Andraste his bride, the elven Creators and even the old Gods, can we _please_ move on to something happier? I believe I was asking for details on _your_ knight before I began bemoaning my lack of one. Tell me everything you can."


	6. Six

_'Inquisitor Trevelyan,_

 _Once again I must apologise for not coming to visit as promised, but the work I'm doing in Kirkwall has begun to bear fruit. I believe that, between my presence here and your Inquisition, we can do much for the good of Thedas._

 _Prince Vael is a staunch ally as well and tells me that Starkhaven is ready to commit troops to your Inquisition according to his ability and your need, providing you make it one of the Inquisition's priorities to aid in the capture of Anders, the responsible party for the destruction of the Chantry, as well as Fenris, the elf who inexplicably helped him flee._

 _Onto the main subject of this missive, I, along with Loghain, have been tracking magister Erimond and, while we have a fairly good idea of where he's going, to set in motion the next part of his macabre plot, we urge you not to charge in just yet. Loghain and the Hero of Ferelden have been in contact regarding this, and they both agree that the ritual the magister is attempting will take him the better part of two months to prepare. Only then will he be in Adamant, and to charge the fortress before that would be to give up on capturing Erimond, who would undoubtedly flee, and to give up on his insight into the mind of Corypheus._

 _Please take care of any pressing business you may have until then, as it would be foolish to miss this opportunity._

 _As an aside, I keep meaning to visit and keep getting delayed. You stole one of my best people - Kirkwall just isn't the same without Varric - and I'm rather overworked. The least you could do is an even trade. Would you be open to sending Cullen to work with me here in Kirkwall, to act as a liaison to the Inquisition and to help stabilise the city? I know he's invaluable as your Commander, but you're sufficiently well-established by now that you would have no trouble replacing him and, let me make that perfectly clear, Varric was invaluable as well and you took him anyway. Can I start making plans?_

 _Also, please don't let Cullen know until I tell you otherwise, I want this to come as a surprise. Plan on having him come back with me at Adamant, as that gives me just enough time to put everything in motion and it still gives you enough time to find a replacement. Coming back to Kirkwall will be just what he deserves._

 _Thank you for your generosity and dedication,_

 _Garrett Hawke'_

Gabriel resisted the urge to throw his glass of water against the wall of his chambers. He couldn't keep breaking whatever it was that held what he was currently drinking whenever something related to Cullen and Hawke came up, no matter how much it hurt.

His first instinct was to deny Hawke's request. Hawke's not-request, to put it bluntly. As usual, the man wasted no time in taking charge and making Gabriel feel like an inept apprentice. First he entreated Gabriel not to attack Adamant before the investigation was complete, then he told him to take care of his loose ends beforehand. In one paragraph he was asking for Cullen, in the next he had already assumed he was getting him.

He could rot in the Void. Cullen was the heart and soul of this army, and Gabriel couldn't be expected to just give him up on the Champion's whim. Cullen would understand - he never questioned duty.

But was it really duty when every fibre of Gabriel's being was rebelling at the thought of no longer having Cullen around Skyhold? Was it for the good of the Inquisition or out of selfishness that he wanted to keep the former Templar right where he was?

' _Coming back to Kirkwall will be just what he deserves._ '

Kirkwall had, as far as Gabriel knew, taken a terrible toll on Cullen. Maybe seeing the town heal, having a hand in that, and by his lover's side no less, would finally take some of the unforgiving burden off the Commander's shoulders. And Gabriel couldn't deny him that.

Even if it meant the end of chess games and stories, of late night conversations and stolen baked goods from the kitchen, he had to let the man he loved go. The man who didn't love _him_ , and to whom it would be unfair to shackle to the Inquisition out of jealousy. A true friend wouldn't do that. He was losing Cullen for good. Best to make peace with that.

* * *

This was it, Cullen thought, pacing his office, this was when they caught Samson. This was when they put a definitive stop to the other man's loathsome practice of using _people_ to produce more red lyrium.

This was where they corrected one of Cullen's most egregious mistakes.

Had he shown Samson the kindness Cassandra had shown himself, would the other man still have gone down this dark path? Had there been no Cassandra and had Corypheus approached Cullen instead, would he have fallen so low?

He liked to think that he wouldn't have, but Samson had been a better man than he had. Was it all down to luck and circumstance?

Trying to soothe his nerves he spun his lucky coin along his fingers. Luck had led him here. Away from Ferelden, away from Kirkwall, close to Gabriel.

Gabriel. Of course his thoughts always ended up there, no matter how twisty a path they took.

Gabriel, who had just come by to ask if Cullen would mind sharing the smaller tent with him, because the Bull took up more space and it made more sense to have him share the larger one with Solas and Cole, who took up almost none at all, than it did to cart a third tent only because Cullen was tagging along. He felt elated and ashamed in equal parts.

Of course he'd be elated - to be so close to the man he loved, for weeks, to listen to him sleeping, to know he was _there_ \- what could be better?

But also deeply, deeply ashamed. They were chasing Samson, not playing house. He had no right to look forward to sleeping in the same tent as Gabriel as if it were anything other than what it was, no right to abuse the other man's trust like that. No right to look forward to the idea of closing his eyes and _pretending_.

He should have thought about how worthy a man he wanted to be before having allowed Meredith to rule the Gallows unchecked. Then he could have been with Gabriel, instead of pretending; instead of living in dread of the day the other man discovered his past.

Whenever he dwelled on it he couldn't shake the image of a vacant-eyed Gabriel, a sunburst etched on his forehead. He would have allowed this wonderful man's very essence to be snuffed out like a candle without a second thought a few years back.

They'd be leaving in half an hour, he realised, putting away his coin and climbing the ladder to reach for the cat. He needed something on his skin, a reminder to take with him, something to ground him lest he forgot himself while sharing Gabriel's tent. Something to last, since he couldn't indulge in this need during the journey. Half an hour. There was still time.


	7. Seven

Gabriel had had an uneasy feeling the entire journey. It wasn't that he was an expert on the subject by any means, but he felt like he was being watched. Followed. Something uncomfortable prickling the back of his head. The feeling hadn't started straight away after leaving Skyhold but, after making itself known, it wouldn't go away.

He wished the Bull had come as planned - surely the spy would have been able to either confirm or deny his gut feeling - but Blackwall had taken his place as, moments before departure, he had received a message about a potential alliance with the qunari. The Bull had stayed behind in Skyhold to reply, coordinate with his Chargers and make preparations for something involving Venatori and a qunari dreadnought. Sounded like fun.

Was Gabriel ever going to be allowed to return from a mission and just relax for a full week, he wondered, instead of having to jump straight into the next one? Maker's dirty underwear, it could be exhausting!

Meanwhile, there was something wrong with Cullen. Gabriel hadn't noticed it at first, had been too preoccupied with thoughts of Hawke's letter and the unnerving sensation of being followed, but every day it seemed the Commander's movements were just a little more uncoordinated, just a tad more sluggish.

Of course Cullen was an incredible fighter; someone who didn't know him wouldn't notice anything amiss, but to Gabriel, who had spent far more time than what would be considered healthy watching the other man spar, it was readily apparent. Was it the withdrawal? He just couldn't shake the thought that something else was off.

He put out the fire slowly, purposely wasting time before heading for their shared tent. He'd noticed Cullen clearly preferred to already be out of his armour and into his nightclothes, safely inside his bedroll by the time Gabriel made it to the tent, so he made a point of staying by the fire long enough for that to happen before going to sleep.

He hoped it was only Cullen being modest, and not that the former Templar was uncomfortable specifically around him.

It figured he would play up this journey in his mind until his stomach hurt with anticipation - his last chance to properly enjoy Cullen's presence, to quietly say his own sort of goodbye to him before he left with Hawke, to fantasise that the other man wouldn't want to leave - only to be utterly unable to enjoy a single minute of it.

The reality was that, between the idea of being followed and the feeling of wrongness emanating from Cullen, he was permanently tense, waiting for the unknown axe to fall.

And that had been before arriving to the Shrine and finding Samson was already gone, his Tranquil friend left behihd to commit suicide. All so terribly tragic, such a waste of life…

He shook his head as Cole sat across from him in front of the extinguished fire. Cole was a rogue and a spirit. Could he tell they were being followed?

"Hi Cole. Can you sense someone near, other than the five of us?"

"He loved and he wanted and he lost and he gained. Fled towards fleeing, loneliness even together, warped and warping, nowhere to run. Broke the chains to make for the chains, help the helpless and heal, heal, heal. But he never meant for the fire to consume them, and now no one will believe him except for home."

"I'm sorry, what?"

"Home was a weapon and hated, and it hurt, and it hit, but then home was healed and it loved as well, once it saw what needed to be seen. Flying is betraying, but didn't he betray himself first by falling? Home is healing and healing is home even when homeless."

Gabriel just stared.

"I'm really trying, Cole, but I can't make heads or tails of what you're sayi-"

And of course Cole had already popped out of existence. Why was nothing ever easy?

It should take them less than three days to reach Skyhold. He only hoped nothing of consequence happened before then.

* * *

Cullen was already in his bedroll when Gabriel walked in. He was thankful the other man had seemed to immediately understand that he didn't want to undress in front of him, and it had never been an issue during the journey. Of course, Gabriel had no idea it was his back that Cullen didn't want him to see, which was the entire point.

Initially there was nothing to see unless he was shirtless, but lately it had begun to ooze, and Cullen didn't want to risk Gabriel noticing the patches of tunic that were plastered to his back, despite the poor light.

He was cold, so cold. These last few days it seemed he was perpetually cold even while his back still burned. He had foregone the salt before leaving Skyhold, he had been reckless and there had been no time, and he was almost certain he had developed an infection.

He suspected the cold meant he was suffering from a low grade fever as well, and he'd been depleting his personal supply of healing potions to stave it off. He only had two left, and he'd been taking more than that a day, but he had to make do. They were a little over two days from Skyhold, it would work. He would need to see a healer once they returned, and he didn't have a clue how he would begin to explain his back, but it would work before it became dangerous.

He wrapped himself even more tightly in his bedroll, trying to hide the shivers that were creeping up on him as he offered Gabriel a smile.

"Gabriel."

"We need a translator for Cole," Gabriel complained, undoing the buckles in his armour, "do you happen to know anyone that speaks Confusing Fade Spirit? I'm all out of ideas."

Cullen's gut twisted uncomfortably. Had Cole said something to give him away?

"What did he say?"

"Something about healing, fire, a weapon and a homeless home, from what I could gather. Oh and chains, betrayal, flying and falling."

The relief was powerful enough to allow him to laugh despite the shivering.

"Sounds like Varric's next novel."

Gabriel's laughter joined his.

"I should have written it down."

He tried to avert his eyes as Gabriel undressed for the night, but he always caught himself greedily stealing glimpses of the other man's form, picturing how those arms would feel wrapped around him, how warm that chest pressing against his back would be.

He fixed his eyes on a safe spot near the other man's foot.

It was strange - loving Gabriel wouldn't bring him anything but impossible longing and pain, but he wouldn't want to give it up. To never have felt this seemed unbearably sad. This hurt, but it was a good pain. Company. A friend.

"Bit for your thoughts? Or should I be offering silver at least?"

"What?"

"As much as I'd feel flattered, I can't possibly believe my ankle is quite so interesting that you'd stare at it for five minutes straight just for its intrinsic value. Unless you think it might hold the secret to defeating Corypheus?"

He sat close and held out his foot between them, a cheeky grin on his face.

"If that's the case then, by all means: we'll study it together."

* * *

Snow. It was always Maker-forsaken snow. One would think that, after having faced off Corypheus and having taken an avalanche to the face for his trouble, Andraste would intercede on his behalf and ask Her husband to spare Gabriel the sight of snow for at least an age, but, of course, it rather seemed as though the divine couple amused Themselves with throwing it at him at every turn.

Right now a snow storm was making the journey back to Skyhold a nightmare, and what was supposed to have been two and a half days had turned into more than four and they still had at least a day's journey ahead of them. On top of it all some of their supplies had been lost, a bag with lyrium and healing potions, torn clean from Solas's horse by the unrelenting wind. And Cullen was getting worse.

Ill, the Commander was definitely ill, which was why Gabriel hadn't even taken the tent down yet. Best to have Cullen ride with the other three while Gabriel took care of the tent on his own; he'd make better time reaching them if he were alone.

The last two days they had barely made it ten paces without having to set up the tents and being stuck in them - and if that didn't seem like a scenario straight from The Randy Dowager he didn't know what did - but the former Templar had spent most of the time sleeping - and uneasily at that - in his armour, his complexion turning more ashen with every passing moment. Gabriel had gone to his backpack for healing potions only to realise their own supply was rather more depleted than he'd believed, and he'd given Cullen his last potion last night. He didn't think he had ever looked forward to the sight of Skyhold quite this much - not even the first time, fleeing Haven.

Gabriel was convinced the worst was almost over when the storm finally cleared, the world turned quiet and blanketed in an eery white stillness; in a day they'd be in Skyhold and Cullen would be taken care of. Only one more day, he thought, helping the other man onto his horse. The Commander had never leaned so heavily on him.

"He's sad," Cole blurted, in his customary unexpected way, and it was odd to Gabriel's ears to be able to so clearly make out someone's voice after days of having to shout over howling winds, "he's sad and he doesn't want to cross, but he never gets what he wants. There were too many tails and not enough salt. He wouldn't let me have this if he knew, but now he won't know and I'll take this with me when I go. Thank you."

He hadn't even begun to try and make sense (as if he could) of what Cole had said when, suddenly, Cullen slumped on his horse and slid, ever so slowly, to the floor, one of his feet still caught in the stirrup. The horse was a good mount and remained still, but the Commander wasn't moving.

His hands trembled as he lifted the visor of Cullen's helmet to touch his face - he was alive, thankfully, yet his breathing was laboured and he was burning up. Blackwall moved to help and lift the former Templar back onto the horse, but Gabriel knew it would be no good.

"He can't ride like this, Blackwall. He can't ride three paces, let alone a day. Help me get him back into the tent. Solas, can you heal him? He's got a fever."

The bald mage approached as Gabriel worked Cullen's foot free from the stirrup, already shaking his head.

"I am sorry, Inquisitor. If we were in Skyhold I could maybe brew a potion, but I cannot heal, especially not knowing what caused the malady."

"That's alright. I'll stay here with him and you three head for Skyhold, send help."

"I'll stay behind instead, Inquisitor," the Warden replied, "you should head back to Skyhold straight away - you can never be too careful, and you never know what may be lurking out here in the snow."

 _Lurking_. His feeling of being followed returned full force, but that only made him more determined to stay. He'd be dammed if he abandoned Cullen to his fate like that.

"All the more reason I should stay behind. If a rift opens up I can close it. Just- get help. He's burning up and I'm no healer."

He could see the disapproval in Blackwall's countenance, but he paid it no mind; he wouldn't be dragged from Cullen's side and it was clear the Warden understood that there was no use arguing the point.

"Alright. Do you need help with his armour?"

He could have used it, but he didn't want to waste any more time. He'd have plenty of time to work on getting Cullen out of his armour while they were well on their way to get help.

"Thanks, there's no need, I'll manage. Just help me get him in the tent, please. Do you still have any healing potions?"

Between Cole and Blackwall they had five, but Gabriel didn't feel right taking them all. He kept three, leaving the trio to share the other two in an emergency. Hopefully they wouldn't be needed.


End file.
